


The Problem

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7270495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, fantasizing about someone you work with can lead to buckets of shame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Wynonna flips onto her stomach, wriggles a hand beneath herself, rocks against her fingers.  It’s been like this for, like, half a freaking hour and nothing is working for her.  She’s a gal with pretty set tastes, but none of the usual fantasies are working.  By now, she should have just given up on masturbation for the night but this is _war_ now.  Biting her lower lip, she rolls her hips and chases too-elusive pleasure, mentally flicks through images and circumstances that usually work for her.  Unbidden, the image of Dolls doing push-ups, skin slick with sweat, presses to the forefront of her mind, so strong she can almost feel the slip-slide of his flexing muscles under her fingertips.

Something like guilt burns in her cheeks, but she finds she’s able to shove it aside as her hips buck, picturing him on his back, the way the salty tang of sweat would hit her tongue.

Her breath comes in shuddering gasps when she rolls onto her back, grasping blindly in the dark for the dildo lost somewhere in the covers.  When her hand closes around the base, she doesn’t bother teasing herself, plunges the thick head into herself.  She has to bite back a moan, fucking down on the toy, suddenly grateful for all those sparring matches if for nothing more than the material it’s providing her now.

Her climax hits her almost unexpectedly, wracking her with toe-curling pleasure, body shuddering as she rolls through the aftershocks until she’s over-sensitive and buzzing with it.

“Fuck,” she hisses quietly, dragging the blanket over herself.

\--

Everything is _fine_ until Dolls leans too close behind her, propped up with a hand on the table and sleeves rolled up and a flash of something from the night before—desperate rutting, need, a quick image of him on _top_ of her—sends heat rocketing through her and she jerks away, flushed with shame.  This was a _terrible_ idea.

“Are you okay?” he asks, quietly concerned, the comforting hand he lays on her arm having the _exact opposite effect_ of what was intended.

“I’m fine,” she replies, hating how breathy her voice comes out.

She has to restrain herself from leaning it when he brushes a touch against her forehead and _oh_ this was bad.  This was a bad, bad idea.

“Are you sick?” he presses, “You’re really warm.”

“I’m… not feeling awesome,” she lies with a wince.

“Go home, then,” he says easily.  “Tea—no whiskey, lots of water.”

“Uh-huh,” she nods, already on her way out the door, jacket in hand.   _Get a hold of yourself, Earp,_ she thinks irritably as she leaves.

\--

After spending the entire drive home shaming herself for last night which _really needs to be a one-time occurrence_ , Wynonna thought _maybe_ she’d be mortified enough to _not_ repeat her performance.  And yet upon finding the house empty she goes straight to her bedroom, suddenly impatient and needy.  She’s already halfway out of her jeans by the time she kicks the door shut.  “I am so, so fucked,” she whines, flopping back onto the bed and teasing herself over her panties.  “This is _bad_.”

Still, she closes her eyes, presses her free fingers against her lips, and she can almost _see_ him hovering over her, almost imagine _his_ fingers gliding over her.  Clenching her teeth, she lets out a long hiss and wriggles onto her stomach to rut against her hand.  Soon, though, it’s not enough and she shoves her hand under her panties, teasing herself with the tip of a finger before pushing in.  Face hot, she whimpers into her pillow when she adds another, thrusting into herself in time with the rock of her hips.

She gets a rhythm that _works_ and bites her lip to suppress a moan, the thought of his _hands_ , oh god, on her, grasping at her tits, her hips, her ass, and she realizes she’s embarrassingly close—really, she should be able to cap out on embarrassment—just before she cums, breath hitching as she _tries_ to keep from crying out.

\--

So, it’s officially a Problem deserving of capital letters.  This is a _very serious Problem_.  She can’t _stop_ and she can’t just… not go to work (she tried, and on the third day he came to _her_ ).  And—like, it can’t be _new_ that he’s always _touching_ her.  This had to have been going on, right?  But she’s suddenly so much more _aware_ of it now, the way he nudges in to her, how his hand ends up on her back or close to her hip—not quite but _so close_ —his fingers brushing over her shoulders.  It’s too fucking _much_ and she keeps telling herself not to give in but it’s _good_.

Yeah—Problem.

And now she has to put up with _training_?  It’s inhumane—she can’t take this, shouldn’t have to.

He knocks her on her ass and her head bounces off the mat.

“Fuck,” she groans.

“C’mon, Earp,” he barks, not even sweating.

“I need a minute,” she pleads.

“Think a Rev’s gonna give you a breather?” he taunts, hunching over her.

“Only if I bat my eyes and ask _real nice_ ,” she croons and pushes unsteadily to her feet.  Scowling, she rubs the back of her head.  “Ow, dude.”

“Sorry,” he winces.  “Let’s go.”

Shaking her head—she’s never really thought about how his workout clothes fit him _just so_ —she braces herself.  She lasts a little bit longer this round but ends up on her back again, this time with his knees on either side of her, wrists held above her head and one hand poised right over her throat.  “Where’s your head?” he demands, scowling.

She wants to say something snarky, but her mouth is dry.  Also, she’s staring at him.  Awesome.

“Can I—can I have my… everything back now?” she asks weakly after a long time.  His frown has softened to something more thoughtful, but he pushes to his feet fluidly.

She can still feel the weight of his thighs on hers.

Shit.

\--

Okay, she’s willing to own that she was probably staring off into the middle distance.  She may even have looked zoned out.  In her defense, it’s been a long day.  In her even more earnest defense, Dolls has been wearing a suit and it’s really distracting, especially because he’s been slowly undressing throughout the day.  It had started with the jacket, just before noon.  Then, it was the buttons—those goddamn buttons.  He didn’t undo them all at once.  The first one was popped during lunch.  The second, just after.  A couple hours later—and she’s _haunted_ that she’s noticed this—the third was open as well.

And now?  Now he’s been rolling up his sleeves for approximately an hour and a half.  (It’s probably been less—it feels like it’s been an eternity.)  He’s flipping a pen between his fingers and he’s probably _talking_ , but she’s pretty much gone.

“And, you’re not listening to me,” shatters through her daydream.

“Huh?”

“Yep,” he nods, lips twisting.  “What’s going on with you?”

She watches the flex of his forearms as he leans over the table separating them.  “Um, no—nothing,” she responds, too late and nonsensical.

“Seriously?” he snorts humorlessly.  “You’ve been distracted, flaky—come on, don’t make me list the weirdness.  If there’s something wrong, you can tell me.  You should tell me.  We’re in this together.”

Scoffing, Wynonna stands and eyes him as she mirrors his posture, hands pressed to the table.  “It’s nothing,” she urges, mentally begging him to drop it.

“Why are you lying?” he asks, eyes narrowing and head tilting—he’s not angry, he’s curious, she realizes.

“I—I’m not,” she lies, badly.  She can’t hold his gaze anymore and looks down which was an even _worse_ idea because he licks his lips and she _wants_ so bad it sucks all the air out of the room.

“You are,” he whispers, smiling.

“Okay, I _am_ ,” she admits, and this is where she’s supposed to push away, isn’t it? 

“Tell me.”

Swallowing, Wynonna brushes her fingers against his bare arm.  “The thing is… this,” she says softly, eyes intent on his once again as her hand slides up to press on top of the open collar of his shirt, “And this.”  Then she lifts her hand to his jaw, thumb barely slipping over his lower lip.  “And, uh, this.”

“I’m gonna kiss you, okay?” he murmurs.  He _waits_ for her nod before mashing their lips together, grasping the back of her neck as if she were gonna run away—and it’s better, better than she imagined, the real pressure of his lips, the burn of his stubble. 

\--

After an incident at a red light, Wynonna was put under strict no-touching orders which she _immediately_ disobeyed when she started stroking his thigh, doing her best to appear innocent when he’d looked over.  Except for asking where he thought he was taking her (his place, which is interesting—she’d always assumed he slept at the station), they didn’t really speak the whole way.  Not until there’s something clawing at her throat, needing _out_ , and it’s just the _stupid_ question, “So, is this weird?”

“What’s weird?”

“Like, I mean—I thought—I dunno,” she stammers, frowning.  _What the hell?_

“I can take you home, we don’t have to do anything,” he suggests, voice very gentle.

“No, I want to—I want _you_ ,” she says with a sincerity that should really scare her, masturbatory fantasies notwithstanding.  “I just mean, like, do you?”

“Yeah, yes,” Dolls says, and it sounds like something bigger than that but she can’t quite decipher it.

Turning her face away, she grins like a _sap_.

\--

Now, Wynonna doesn’t _actually_ get a good look at the inside of Dolls’ apartment because he whirls on her and crowds her against the door.  Her hands slide over his ribs, tugging him flush against her.  “God,” she whispers.

He’s teasing her, barely touching her lips before pulling just out of reach, and she gives a frustrated little moan.  “Impatient,” he scolds, smiling.

“I have been so, _so_ patient for _months_ ,” she counters, biting her lip.  Snickering, he dips his head down to catch her mouth.  The kiss grows bruising, passionate, as his hands work down her sides, clench her hips.  “I’ve thought about this so much.”

“Yeah?” he coaxes.

“Uh-huh.”  She lets him kiss her until she’s dizzy before pushing him away.  “I’ll tell you all about it if you show me your bedroom,” she offers, voice husky.

Dolls makes a noise in the back of his throat before grabbing her hand and leading her deeper into the dark apartment.  It’s not big, but he guides her around furniture, movements probably out of habit.  She can hear him open a door and then he flicks a switch and there’s light.  In the room, the bed is messy and she laughs suddenly, all the tension draining out of her.

“I thought you military guys are supposed to be all neat,” she chokes.

“I’m slipping,” he responds dryly.

Her laughter fades out as he makes his way towards the bed, shrugging out of his shirt and tossing it on the floor.  When he sits, he toes off his shoes and looks at her with one raised brow.  Chewing the inside of her cheek, she slips off her shoes near the door before filling the space between his knees.

“Weren’t you gonna tell me something?” he asks, low and warm and she feels her knees go a little week at the way his eyes are on hers.

“Well,” she starts.  “You know, it all kinda starts with you touching me.”

He lets out a low hum, nosing against her belly through her sweater as his hands snake up the backs of her legs.  “Like this?” he asks, corner of his mouth lifting.  When she nods, his grip slides up until it’s hot around her waist.  She tugs her sweater up over her head (smacking herself in the mouth with her necklace in the process), watches him look at her belly, her chest, and climbs over his lap because _now_ she can kiss him again, almost on-level but making him crane for it a little.  “Jesus, Wynonna,” he groans when she scritches the back of his neck.  “You were saying?”

“Sometimes this,” she whispers, pressing him back, grabbing his hands to press them over his head.

“Sometimes?”

“Well, sometimes it’s the other way,” she murmurs as his hips rock up against hers.  Sighing, she continues, “Which probably points to something specific, don’t you think?”

Without warning, he flips her onto her back, grips her wrists just hard enough to hold her but not enough to actually give her any pain.  “Maybe,” he responds.  His teeth scrape over her earlobe and she shudders.

“That’s—awesome, don’t stop doing that,” she moans.  Her back arches and heels dig in to the edge of the mattress.

“Tell me,” he orders, sucking a line of bruises down her throat that she’s gonna have to care about eventually.  Then he pushes up, looking a little mischievous.  “Or you could show me.”

There’s something like a challenge there and she’s not about to say no to it.  He releases her and watches her wriggle up the bed.  She sits up to unhook her bra and throw it somewhere, pressing her knees together as she rolls her palms over her nipples, and she feels a flush creeping up her chest and into her cheeks at his stare.

“Do you have _any_ idea what you do to me?” he asks, climbing up next to her and tugging her down to kiss her heatedly, groaning when she bites his lip.

“It’s either good or really, really bad,” she gasps as his fingers press against her through her jeans. As her hips rock against the toying pressure, she lets herself be pulled into another too-hard until she’s shaking, whimpering into his lips, “Fuck.”

Her head falls back on his pillow when he starts working on the button of her jeans, and she swears to _god_ he’s pulling the zipper down tooth by tooth to drive her _crazy_.  She watches his hand smooth over her belly before slipping downward, and when she looks up he’s watching too.  Her hips roll up against his fingers, better now, slipping over her clit.  Biting her lip, she lets out a long moan.  The position is awkward at first when she reaches down to stroke him through his pants, his breath growing staccato in her ear when she finds a pressure that works, but she goes slow, mimicking the way he brushes his fingers over her, too light even when she bucks up.

Too soon, though, even that disappears as he pulls away, shifting and settling on his knees between her legs.  There’s a weird, shivery anticipation in the moments that he looks at her, eyes roaming freely over her body.  Then he moves quickly, hooking into her jeans, and she lifts her hips to shimmy out of them.  He descends on her lips, swallowing her soft mewls as his hand slides between her legs again.  It’s a fleeting, hungry thing, before he’s moving down, teeth trailing down her throat, pausing between her breasts. Her nails squeeze into his shoulders as he toys over one nipple, then the other, drawing each hard nub into his mouth to bite and tease until she’s arching up, crying out.

Her belly quivers when he presses a gentle line of kisses down the middle.  She whimpers when he presses a finger into her, she may be begging, rocking with his slow thrusts.  She can’t help but look down when he starts lapping at her clit, too-gentle and not _enough_ , but his eyes are hot on hers and she can’t muster anything to say, instead gripping the back of his head.

He seems to get the message, though, and adds another finger, picks up the pace.  She tosses her head back and his fingers inside her curl and she whines, “That—there, good, yes.”

Her hips stutter when her orgasm shatters through her, breaking her apart into a thousand pieces, and she can hear distantly that she’s _keening_ but that’s washed out with every hard shock of pleasure.  He eases his movements but doesn’t _stop_ until she’s struggling not to scream, whole body right on that edge of _too much_.

“Shit,” she gasps when he pulls his fingers out, still quaking.  “Holy shit.”

She feels him move up her body, rest heavily into her, hard against her, and her eyes are still shut when he kisses her, open and messy.  They stay like that until she regains feeling in her extremities.  Pressing and pushing, she flips their positions, nips her way down his neck, pauses when he moans to suck the spot that pulled that _noise_ out of him for good measure.  The sound he makes when she drags her teeth over a nipple is heady, addictive.  She can hear him trying to control his breathing and grins into his flesh.  She trails her lips over his stomach, pausing only when she reaches where his skin disappears under his pants.  Eyes locked on his, she traces over his zipper with her tongue.

While working his pants undone, she noses along his hip, relishing in his low, impatient curse.

“Language!” she scolds.

“Oh, fuck you,” he growls, but his smile betrays him.

Rolling her eyes, she frees his cock, hand wrapped around the base.  His breath comes in quick puffs as she pumps him slowly.  His head tips back, eyes closed, but she can see his fingers curling in the sheet.  Her gaze stays up as she takes him in her mouth.  The pace she sets is languid, and she bobs her head almost lazily, following her lips with her hand over spit-slick skin.  At some point, her eyes slide shut, but she can feel his muscles flex around her with every pull.

She _pops_ off him, licking her lips, and he groans, “You’re obscene.”

She can only bring herself to offer her most _innocent_ smile before sliding her lips back over the head.  Now she moves faster, and— _oh_ —she’s never thought he might be—she’d thought he’d be _quiet_ , but he’s so satisfyingly vocal every sound sends heat straight between her thighs.  His hips start to roll, not enough to really thrust into her mouth just enough for her to feel the gentle ripple of his movements.  She shifts with it, urging him faster, until his movements lose their fluidity and grow short of rough.  His orgasm catches her almost off-guard, but she jerks him through it until his voice goes up an octave and he stops pulsing into her mouth.

Trying to discreetly wipe her lips, she climbs back up until their noses brush, and he surprises her by dragging her into an open kiss.  She hums into it, grinning.  She pulls away and sighs, “Okay, so that was _awesome_.”

“Yeah,” he replies with an answering smile.

“You know,” she muses, settling into his chest.  “I must really like you.”  He purrs questioningly into her hair.  “I mean, I never swallow for anyone.”

With a groan, he shoves her out of his arms, but she goes laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyy, shout-out to the anon who requested this also I hope it was? Good?
> 
> Swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where I yell about these two a lot--also, prompts are cool.


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